


downwards acceleration due to (you)

by hawkayy



Series: sign to me [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 08:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5327300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkayy/pseuds/hawkayy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is an ASL interpreter at a conference, Clint is the only deaf person in attendance, and the former's dress shirt that clings to the right lines of his body definitely does not help the latter's tendency to fall very, very quickly for people, and in this case, hot men in suits who can sign. Very well, may he add.</p><p>(written for feelstide 2015)</p>
            </blockquote>





	downwards acceleration due to (you)

**Author's Note:**

> two things:  
> -you may have noticed this accidentally being posted two weeks ago, and if you did, i'm sorry for the confusion. i fully blame that on my inability to read very simple posting instructions.  
> -this is part one of a two-part fic, which may very well be the first installment of a series.

Classical Mechanics, of all the subjects. It could have been Asian Art History, or Statistics III, or anything else ranging from Creative Writing to Geochemistry that he has studied (or tried to study) for the past three years, but no. His email inbox had flashed two new messages from his advisor with the subject line ‘PLEASE DECLARE YOUR SELECTED MAJOR BY THE END OF THE WEEK BEGINNING SEP24’, in all caps and an exasperated tone. And so he looks down at his classlist, skims at the line in italics that reads _Classical Mechanics 162ab_ , vaguely remembers Dave once claiming that knowing your trajectories can help aiming a whole lot, decides that the course major could be a good idea, and begins to peck in a response.

 _Physics_ , he types. _Classical Mechanics_. Plus, he’s seen Tony and Bruce, two of the Sophomore boys down the hall, attempt all sorts of experiments in their dorm room (as their PA, Clint should really do something about this), and they seem like they have fun. At least, when they’re not singeing their wall tiles.

 

-

 

In retrospect, it wasn’t the worst subject he could’ve ended up majoring in. He could have done _English Literature_ or something even more vomit-inducing, and with that thought, he throws his overnight bag in the passenger seat of Dave’s car.

It’s a three-day conference plus workshop in Michigan, mandatory for all Physics majors. The talks range from Thermodynamics to the Quantum Theory, and the professor had made it clear that if they failed to be present, so would twenty-five percent of their grade.

Tony and Bruce file in the back seat, bleary-eyed, each a paper cup of coffee in hand. Bruce is going for his Nuclear Physics major, and Tony joins for ‘moral support’, as he claims, even though they all know he’s genuinely interested. Frankly, Clint doesn’t mind another person splitting the gas money, as he’s been living on Ramen noodles for the past week or ten.

The drive up is quick - people aren’t exactly keen on travelling on the I-80 at six o’clock on a Tuesday morning. They arrive just in time for the beginning of the assembly lecture that initiates the conference. The majority of the attendees have signed in at the main counter and filed in the hall already, and the four slip in just in time to snatch the last seats at the back of the room.

The college lecture halls have horrible acoustics already, Clint having to center all his energy on the professors to prevent them from becoming droning, ticking background noises in his hearing aids. He can only imagine what the processed sounds of some croaky old man standing 100 feet away who doesn’t know how to hold a microphone properly would sound like, dispersing off the thin walls. He doesn’t need to be majoring in basic Physics to figure that it isn’t going to be the most ideal of situations. It’s too far for his aids to find and magnify and too far for him to be able to read lips. Wonderful.

The leading professor welcomes the seated lot of ‘scholars’ to the conference, and it makes Clint feel guilty and wish that he is here for any other reason for the credits at the end of the year. The professor continues, introducing the many members of ‘elite research teams’ that have assembled from ‘all over the nation’ to deliver these presentations and seminars. A man in a grey suit steps onto the side of the stage, and he makes a few gestures before Clint catches on with his actions - it’s sign language.

Clint feels a surge of excitement through him, and he shifts his attention from trying to decode the muffled sounds of the speakers to the smooth movements of the sign language interpreter. Clint’s never met an angel before, but he’s sure the man in the grey suit resembles one at least somewhat. He glances around the back of the hall, checking for anyone else who has their eyes trained on the interpreter.

The words start to lapse into something mundane, ‘recognizing the efforts made in applying eighteenth century physics to the modern world’, and Clint shifts his eyes to the man himself. His frame is small, shoulders narrow, and the suit blazer has the first button done, which allows the sides to wrap closer against his body, showing the curve of his waist. A black tie hangs just below the collar, and he wears a half-smile on his face as he signs. He flips the page in the handout he has probably been given to rehearse, and Clint has to clench shut his jaws to prevent any noise from escaping when the interpreter squints, frowns down at the booklet, and bites down, just the slightest, on his lower lip.

The rest of the talk continues with Clint half-watching the interpreter’s signs and half-watching the interpreter, period (and completely ignoring the potbellied, bearded, and supposedly well-experienced professor). The talk ends with a scattered round of applause, and Clint finds himself standing up reluctantly as he watches the interpreter collect his papers, stepping off the stage.

 

-

 

“My God, either you’ve found a sudden fascination with watching people sign, or you’re a bit in love, and I know it’s not the former.” Dave remarks when they walk out of the lecture hall.

“Do you understand how truly _beautiful_ someone is when they step in and translate dimmed sounds into something you can actually comprehend?” Clint steps out of the flow of students filing out of the auditorium hall, back facing the outer wall.

“So you _do_ admit you think he’s beautiful.” Dave rolls his eyes, and Clint isn’t sure if he wants to slap him because of how _undisabled_ Dave sounds or because maybe, just maybe, a word or two of Dave’s words are true.

“Shut up.”

“Come on,” Dave laughs, and Clint knows fully that he has achieved the effect he wanted, “we have thirty minutes until our first workshop. Let’s get our long overdue coffee.”

 

-

 

He hopes the interpreter is there.

It’s a dumb thought, because the interpreter is clearly present for someone who actually registered for the need of it and not Clint, who jogged in at the last minute with only enough time to tick the box next to his name on the register.

He chucks his coffee in the trash can, and pushes the wooden door of the lecture hall in, shouldering his messenger bag.

And sure enough, he’s there. The interpreter stands beside the podium, flipping through his stapled stack of papers, a pair of dark bordered glasses now framing his face.

Clint’s heart jumps a little, and he attributes it to the venti dosage of caffeine he just consumed. He takes a seat on the fourth row, not so he can see the interpreter better - he can see just as clearly from fifty feet away - but so the interpreter can see him better. See that someone else is actually listenin- watching, that whoever he showed up for isn’t the only one in attendance who has the need for his signing. He feels Dave smirking behind him, and he shoots him a glare.

He wonders what the interpreter’s name is, (mainly because Clint would like to stop calling him as ‘the interpreter’ in his head), and makes an effort to set up his run-down laptop on the pull-out table attached to the chair beside him. He opens a new document, titles it ‘Principia Mathematica Decoded’, and leaves the cursor blinking on the blank screen as looks back up at the man standing next to the projector screen. He unscrews the cap of the complimentary bottle of water, courtesy of the conference host, and takes a long gulp to refresh himself for the next two hours of trying to read, interpret and process information that the interpreter (who, yes, Clint would very much like to look at) feeds him.

 

-

 

“There’s a reception at the bar next to the school, hosted for conference attendees.” Tony states, picking at a piece of lettuce in the salad bowl. They’re at a diner they found two blocks down, wharfing down on greasy burgers and garlic fries, which are supposedly their ‘chef’s choice’ dishes.

“Probably going to be a bunch of geniuses discussing Laws of Conservation or something.” Clint says through a mouthful of ketchup.

“I mean, there’s alcohol. That works for me. Also, I’m sure Bruce and I at least qualify as partial ‘geniuses’.” Tony shrugs, sipping on a large plastic cup of diet coke.

“Are you even legally allowed to be consuming alcohol?” Dave questions, grinning from the side of the counter he shares with Clint.

“The government is taking away my rights.” Tony snatches Dave’s car keys from the tabletop, and inches over Bruce’s lap to get out of the red cushioned seats. “Now come on. We’re going, Legolas, tell your friend to stop being a party pooper.”

“Hey!” Dave reaches out, stuffing one last handful of fries into his mouth before chasing after Tony to the direction of the door. “My keys! No, you’re not driving, no!”

Clint sighs, and walks alongside Bruce’s sheepish smile to tail after the two.

 

-

 

“So. I’ve heard from your dear friend David over here that you have something of a minor crush on the sexy interpreter over there.” Tony leans in to whisper in Clint’s ear, then wiggles his eyebrows to the bewildered look Clint gives him.

“No, don’t listen to Dave.” Clint hisses, glancing towards the direction Tony’s eyes are at, and sure enough, it’s the interpreter, standing alone beside a bar stool, absently chatting up a bartender.

“It’s not like anyone missed the very subtle glances you gave to him during the introduction assembly.”

“I was staring at him because he was signing, and I could actually understand the contents of the lectures when I follow him.”

“No one who’s only looking to understand stares at someone like the way you did. Your eyes actually _sparkled_ when I said interpreter.”

“Okay, so maybe I am. So?”

“Come on, you idiot,” Tony pushes, causing Clint to almost trip over his own shoelace.

“I’m not having a conversation with him under this level of background noise.” Clint glares back, catching himself.

“Go buy him a drink or something. It’s not like we haven’t seen you stare at him creepily at every chance you’ve got.”

“You should have seen him in the Classical Mechanics workshop. You weren’t too hesitant to snatch a front row seat to have a better view. Were you even getting any of the information, or were you just staring at his ass the entire time?” Dave quips, gesturing for the bartender to refill their glasses.

“Shut _up_. It’s not the same. I can observe, but there’s no way I’m speaking to him.” Clint reaches to push the glass closer to the bartender, but Tony slaps his hand away, and grabs Clint’s empty glass himself.

“Look, Arrows, you’re going to take your empty glass over here, waltz over to Hotpants over there, communicate in whatever language, verbal or gesture, that you wish, and bond or something.”

“Tony, signing is not-”

“Just _do_ it!” Clint feels a heavy shove on his back, and he stumbles forward, and manages to meet the eyes of the one and only interpreter. It’s too late to back out now and pretend like they didn’t just have one and a half seconds of prolonged eye contact, so Clint straightens his shirt, tries his best not to turn around and glower at the three grade school guys, and walks over with all the confidence that he can muster.

“Hi, can I get you a drink?” He pinches himself in his mind. _Fucking man up, Barton._

“Hi.” The man smiles, and it sends all sorts of butterflies diving into Clint’s stomach. He hasn’t changed out of his suit yet, the slim, black tie hanging from his collar, resting down his abdomen, pointing to his--

“Sure. Scotch. On the rocks, please.”

Clint calls for the bartender, and spares a glance to the table from where he was shoved away from. Tony grins at him toothily before dragging Bruce away, into the crowd, and Dave snickers in a distance.

“Phil, by the way.” The interpreter holds out a hand, and Clint panics as he decides whether or not to wipe his sweaty palms before taking the extended hand. He doesn’t.

“Clint.” He tries for a smile, and he thanks the lord when their drinks are lightly pushed over to them across the counter.

“So, Clint, you’re an undergrad?”

“Junior. Iowa State.” Clint takes a sip of his drink, giving his brain to process his words before he blurts out anything too dumb. “And you’re the ASL interpreter.”

“Right. That’s me. You’ll see me next to the podium at every talk or workshop.” Phil smiles again, and Clint has to bite his lip.

“Are you still going to be there tomorrow morning?” Clint blurts, and he mentally slaps himself. “I mean,” he corrects himself before he freaks Phil out by sounding too eager, “it was very helpful.” He points to his left ear, where his hearing aids rest inside the ear canal.

“Oh.” Phil’s eyebrows rise, his smile widening. “Well, I’m glad I’m of use. Hope I was helpful?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you were. Sounds don’t...pick up from that far.” Clint glances down at the table. “Um, unless you have other people to tend to, I mean, it’s not like you’re at the conference for me only, and-”

“I’m here as a courtesy, Clint. I’m here as a courtesy of the conference for people who need me, so don’t hesitate to book me for certain lectures or workshops.”

Clint nods, and they lapse back into silence as they sip from their glasses. Phil glances at his watch, then looks up.

“It’s not too late. Do you want to, talk outside?” He flicks his thumb just slightly over to the direction of the door.

“Sure. That’d be - that’d be better.” Clint finds the grin that he’s used on too many people, finally, and slips out of the stool.

They stand outside the bar, the cold breeze lifting up the edges of their jackets. A few stray cars fly by, and Clint can see through the windows of the high-end restaurant across the street, the occupants of the table sitting with backs straight and little square folded napkins on their laps.

“So. Sign language. Why did you - what made you, you know, _learn_ -”

“My sister, actually. She lost her hearing partially when she was sixteen from a virus infection, and attended a youth support group for the six months she lost all hearing but the low frequency vowel sounds. I went with her a few times, and made a friend who taught me the basics. He always talked about how there weren’t enough interpreters at every event he went to, and, well, here I am.”

“Sounds heroic.” Clint mutters.

Phil scoffs, raising one eyebrow and lowering his head. He stands a full inch or two taller than Clint, but he’s leaning on one of his legs, his back slightly hunched when he slips his hands into his suit pockets.

“What subject do you major in?” He turns to face Clint, who snaps his eyes back up from where Phil’s suit jacket was pushed back by Phil’s arm, showing the front of his shirt neatly tucked into his belt.

“Physics. Classical Mechanics. I didn’t exactly have a choice. I went undeclared until the start of Junior year.” Clint feels himself blush, and he attributes it on his own indecisiveness on choosing a major rather than the thrill he felt seeing Phil the Interpreter close up.

“Isn’t that pretty hard to pick up starting the third year?”

“Yeah, well, my school doesn’t offer Archery as a major.” Clint rolls his eyes. “I got in on an Archery scholarship. And they made me pick a proper, _academic_ major.”

“Archery. As in, like, arrows?”

“No, as in, like, throwing darts at local pubs. No, sorry, I was being an asshole. Yes, archery, as in, like, arrows.”

“What made you decide to go for archery?”

“Well.” Clint almost feels the string slap against his bare forearm (“armbands, Barton, armbands!” as his coach would bellow) when the wind passes through the crack between his arm and his body. “Well, same as you, for sign language, I guess. A chance encounter, of sorts.”

Phil nods, followed by a long pause.

“Are you any good at it?”

Clint laughs through his nose. “Better than I am at Classical Mechanics.”

Phil laughs, a whole-hearted, genuine laugh, and Clint feels the axis of his world tilt.

-

 

They part after a few more lines of chatter and a promise to meet up again Wednesday night. Phil has five hours worth of signing in advanced physics terminology to prepare for, and Clint should be tired from waking up at five in the morning for the ‘roadtrip’ they’ve had, but no. The excitement is wired in him, and he feels dumb for it, feels dumb for having a fifth-grader crush on a person he’s just met (even if he’s stared at him for as many hours of the day as he could have mustered), but he tosses that all aside.

He thinks he hears ambiguous noises coming from Bruce and Tony’s bedroom beside him, but he ignores it, and falls asleep to the smell of fresh detergent of the crumpled sheets of the motel bed.

 

-

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> a few words:  
> -ignore the question of realisticality of the nature of the conference itself (let's pretend physics is as important as athletic conferences to government funded schools, yeah?)  
> -second part should be up as soon as i finish tweaking it  
> -happy early holidays!


End file.
